Utter silence answered him. . S. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. He was a man tout à fait capable, this Gerald. There is no Heaven for your mother. You see I am rather obstinate. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. I—I hurt myself.
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